


Islands in the Stream

by DAZzle_10



Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Fluff, M/M, Post-Quarter Final, Romance, media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: The triumph of winning their quarter final overflows into something a little more personal for two of England's backs.





	Islands in the Stream

**Author's Note:**

> So... this pairing kind of... happened? I would say I don't know how it got into my head, but I do. It's just kind of a long-winded and complicated explanation that involves A-Level Psychology, Samoan culture, and my brain's habit of wandering down random roads and getting lost but not really minding that much. Combine that with Ben Youngs and Sam Underhill outing Owen as a serial - and _good_ \- karaoke singer (special thanks to Sam for giving me a song _other_ than Oasis for Owen to sing), my thoughts about their midfield partnership, a general eagerness to try a new pairing while still being too loyal to Owen to write about someone else entirely at the moment, and the fact that I'd forgotten it was Jamie George's birthday today so haven't written anything about that yet (and still may not), and you get... _this_. 
> 
> Maybe I should have made that my summary. At the time of writing this, I haven't actually written a summary, and I have no idea what I'm going to do for it still, so... Should be fun. Anyway, what about this weekend??? Poor Japan, poor Ireland (I actually couldn't watch all of that match, even though I was mostly supporting Ireland because I'd rather have them in the semi, and only a little because, y'know, we British Isles should stick together...) and Rory/Joe, poor Michael Cheika, and... yeah. Favourite joke of the weekend is definitely a pun I saw about Vahaamahina and his elbow incident - and apparently he *didn't know he couldn't elbow Welsh players*? Maybe that's a joke, but I actually wouldn't put it past French Rugby some days.
> 
> Regardless. If anyone has any knowledge of the Fa'afafine and pronouns/gendered terminology, please do comment. I've been trying to find information and have been so far unsuccessful. Everything seems to conflict even for individual people, and I'm not sure who to believe. If it varies from person to person, I'm down for that, but it all seems very unclear online.

With a grin, Owen turns away from the Australians, letting his clapping slow and eventually dropping his hands to his sides. Leaning in towards Fordy, he nudges his friend gently with an elbow.

“Good game, mate!” he calls over the surrounding noise – the first time he’s actually _spoken _to George since the game ended, because he was a little _excited_ when he first yanked the younger man in for a hug.

“Yeah,” Fordy smiles, bright and happy, almost shouting to be heard. “You kicked well!”

“Thanks!” Owen feels his cheeks stretch wider, and draws in a breath to say more.

He never manages to get the words out, however, before a hand finds his arm, tugging him around and away from Fordy as another rough, calloused palm settles on the back of his head, and suddenly, his face is pressed into a solid, white-covered shoulder, lips brushing against his ear with words that he can’t make out over the roar of the crowd. Pressing closer to the familiar body, he lets his arms rise to return the embrace and squeezes his eyes tightly shut to soak in the emotion of the moment – his own, his teammates’, the crowd’s. The dream is one step closer now, dangling tantalisingly in front of him, seemingly there for the taking even though he knows it will be a lot of work from here on out – more still than they’ve pushed through already. He’s ready for it, he thinks; they all are.

“Owen!” someone calls, and for a second, those warm, strong arms merely tighten around him, but they fall away completely a second later as Owen registers that this isn’t one of his teammates. “Owen, could we get a quick interview…?”

Reluctantly, he steps away and turns to nod in confirmation, following the newcomer over to where a make-shift screen has been set up with a camera at the ready. Already, the itch to return to his teammates is building, and he can’t help but chew the inside of his cheek even as he lifts his head to stare around at the stadium. A sea of ecstatic white meets his eyes, an immediate reminder of what’s just happened, and as he takes in the cheering, the celebrations, the pure joy of the country he’s so proud to represent, he thinks that maybe, he wouldn’t mind giving them a few minutes after all.

All the same, he doesn’t hang around long, getting his points across and out of the way, making his appreciation for the fans and the shirt as clear as possible and remembering to praise Australia, too; he got enough shit for forgetting to do that for Scotland in his misery after the Six Nations, and he really can’t be fucked to deal with the ribbing he got for that again. (_“You’re so _ungrateful_, Faz…”, “Honestly, mate, what were you thinking?”, “Look at this, you’ve broken their hearts – they’re absolutely _furious_…”_ – Yeah, no.) Thankfully, it’s not long before he’s free to go, with one last stumble that for once doesn’t even dent his mood – as he tags on a quick, ‘and women, sorry,’ his cheeks don’t flush, and his tongue doesn’t tie itself in knots, for which he’s more than grateful.

A matter of minutes later, having joined his teammates on a lap of the field to applaud the fans, he’s standing in a huddle with his team, Ben’s hand on one shoulder and Tom’s fingertips ghosting his waist.

“Brilliant performance – we are now _building_,” he tells them, clapping his hands to emphasise his point, and is pleased to see several of his teammates nodding, “Building into the rest of this tournament.”

And they are. _Forty fucking points_, and they’re going to keep getting better, working on absolutely everything they can, until they can take on the _fucking world_.

While George takes over for a moment, he meets familiarly warm brown eyes across the circle, smiling at the nod of confirmation he receives in return before his partner’s gaze tracks sideways to catch the end of Fordy’s quick talk.

“Jonny,” he calls, leaning in with the rest of his teammates, his friends, to hear the call; two rapid-fire claps, and they break apart, heading for the tunnel.

Three steps, Owen manages before hands settle on his upper arms, stilling him in place, then his boyfriend leans in, chapped lips – still damp with sweat and condensation – meeting his own in a chaste brush before strong arms tug him in once more.

“We’re through,” Manu whispers, voice cracking with emotion, and Owen can only cling back for several seconds, the euphoria in his boyfriend’s eyes, words, embrace flowing over him in a heady rush that leaves him breathless, light-headed. “We… We can go all the way.”

“We can,” Owen agrees quietly, steadfastly ignoring the cameras around them and the uproar of the crowd, his teammates’ usual teasing conspicuously absent. “We need to work for it, but… We can.”

Manu’s lips press briefly into the side of his head, but he draws back for a proper kiss instead, uncaring that they’re on display for the entire world to see. Maybe he’ll regret this tomorrow, or the day after – or when this tournament ends, no matter what day that may be for them. For now, he’s so high up on the win, on the optimism and support, on Manu’s presence, and he doesn’t care about anything else.

“Come on, lads!” Ben breaks them apart with a light slap to Owen’s arse and a pat on Manu’s head. “You can get yourselves some alone time later.”

Manu rolls his eyes, grumbling under his breath, but lets go of Owen, who does the same reluctantly – with the compromise that he threads his fingers through Manu’s instead, earning a gentle squeeze of appreciation. It’s only after a few seconds that he realises exactly how much attention they’ve garnered; their faces are on all the big screens in the stadium, and when their kiss is replayed in slow motion – _utterly ridiculous_, Owen thinks, faintly astounded – the crowd roars yet again. If there’s any outrage within the shouts, he can’t hear it over the sheer delight and, on looking around, he sees only brilliant smiles and cheering fans, dancing among the many blinding flashes.

“That’s… one way to come out,” George observes from Ben’s side, grinning wryly, and Owen cannot bring himself to care enough to offer more than a shrug, even as Manu’s beam turns slightly sheepish.

“We were going to do it at some point soon,” Owen’s partner defends, even as he raises their joined hands to kiss Owen’s knuckles lightly. “And I wanted to kiss him – you don’t mind, do you?”

The words are accompanied by an anxious glance, and Owen shakes his head quickly, bumping his shoulder gently into Manu’s.

“When have I ever minded you kissing me?” he teases.

“Oh, stop,” Ben complains, covering his ears. “Please, God, _stop_…”

Owen can only laugh as they turn into the tunnel, outwardly ignoring the cameras that follow them through the apparent maze of walls – though he has to relax on stepping through the changing room doors, finally away from the constant attention and observation. A second later, however, his clubmates converge upon him, Jamie ruffling his hair almost violently as Maro cackles, the sound carrying a worryingly manic edge.

“Our own little romantic!” Jamie crows delightedly, practically dragging him away from Manu to lower his voice. “You’re not getting away with that, you know, mate – we’ve got a good few song choices for the bus ride. You’ll be serenading your boyfriend with one of those, and don’t think you’ll be getting out of it.”

“He kissed me first!” Owen protests.

“Oh, poor Faz,” Elliot mocks, all too happy to fall into his new role as a Saracens player to tease Owen about this. “He started it, did he? Do you want to do a duet?”

“To be fair…” Jamie’s eyebrows rise. “Manu’s not a bad singer himself. Maybe…”

“_No_,” Owen tells them firmly, because this is definitely going to be filmed, and therefore probably end up on social media, and at least if he’s the only one singing, it’ll be less obvious what’s going on.

A moment later, staring down at the song list that Jamie _really has_ managed to produce – and Owen doesn’t know when he had time to do this, because it hasn’t even been five minutes since Manu kissed him out on the pitch – he feels his optimism drop a level, and then another. There isn’t going to be any disguising what Jamie is dragging him into, not with these songs.

“_Fuck’s sake_,” he groans quietly. “Can you make Manu do it instead?”

“You’re singing for us whether you like it or not,” Jamie cuts that wish off firmly, the grin that stretches across his face nigh on evil. “If you want to do a duet with him, go ahead, but _you_’re not getting out of this.”

“Right,” Owen mutters, sighing, then stabs a finger at the only vaguely acceptable one on the list. “I’ll do that, alright? And that’s it.”

“No Oasis?” Jamie prods him. “Aw, Faz…”

“You haven’t got any Oasis on there,” Owen points out, already turning away. “Now, I’m heading back to some better company, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine, mate,” Jamie pats him on the shoulder. “We know it’s not the chat you’re going for.”

As he flees their laughter in search of Manu, Owen can find no response but to stick up his middle finger.

“…the ability to refocus and reset after we had a problem in the game, and that’s a great development of the team, and, ah…” Eddie waves a hand vaguely, “Great job by Owen as Captain.”

“Next question?” comes the prompt to Owen’s left, then a hand extends in the direction of a raised arm, and Owen has to bite back his smile as one of the World Cup volunteers scurries in a crouch towards the indicated journalist.

“Owen,” the woman starts, a wide smile on her face, and Owen shifts a little to face her, waiting for her question; he doesn’t recognise her, but she sounds Australian – or maybe it’s a New Zealand accent, because he’s never been brilliant at telling them apart, and she seems far too cheerful to be an Aussie. “There was a… touching display on the field after the match – with Manu Tuilagi. I just wondered if you could tell us a bit about how that… came about?”

Owen can’t quite tell if she’s outright managed to assume that they’re straight after _that_, or if she’s just trying not to make a leap that she doesn’t feel ready for, but either way, he knows what his response will be. He’s talked to Manu, both of them anticipating that this would come up at some point, and he knows what needs to be said.

“Yeah,” he coughs, nervous despite himself; this is a big – more than that, enormous – step to be making, and letting Manu kiss him was one thing, but _this_…

This is something else entirely. This is him coming out, to more than just his teammates, friends and family. This is him revealing a secret – and not just his own, but Manu’s, too – that he’s kept hidden for most of his life – to everyone. To strangers, to opposition players, to the fans and the media and all kinds of malicious bodies, waiting out there to get their retribution against him for daring to love who he does.

_Fuck_, he wishes it was Manu next to him right now instead of Eddie; as much as he appreciates the familiar presence of his coach, what he needs is the anchor that only his partner can provide him with, to stop the rapidly growing anxiety that tightens his chest, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. His fingers twist nervously beneath the table, slipping a little over one another as sweat dampens his palms, and a prickle of heat grows in his cheeks as he clears his throat for a second time.

“Manu is… Manu’s my boyfriend.”

Anxiously, he glances at Eddie, forcing himself to relax at the encouraging nod he receives in return.

“We’ve been together a – a few years, now,” he admits carefully, then lifts a hand to rub distractedly at his forehead as he gathers his thoughts to get across everything else that he wants to say. “We’ve been… talking about coming out for a little while, and then… Yeah.”

He’s not sure what else to say, though he can’t help but feel like they expect more from him. Normally, he’d let it be if he was done talking, but when it comes to this, he can’t help but fidget, searching desperately for something else to contribute.

“I think,” Eddie leans into the microphone to talk. “I think Manu just got a bit overexcited about the win – they’ve all worked incredibly hard, and I’m very proud, very proud of their effort tonight.”

Relieved, Owen allows a small, amused smile to curve his lips for a second, then nods when Eddie glances over at him questioningly, assuring his coach that the intervention was both welcome and helpful. The journalists, however, sit in silent shock, all eyes fixed on Owen apart from the few pairs that dart from side to side in awkward confusion.

“And a great atmosphere, too,” Eddie adds, while Owen tries to hide the fact that his limbs feel shaky with nervous anticipation and relief. “I thought it was a great stadium, a great crowd, you know… So well organised. Absolutely outstanding.”

That, luckily, seems to kick everyone into gear once more, and Owen slumps back a little as a man down at the front raises his hand for a microphone. Now, all he and Manu have to do is fend off the probable surge of homophobia and prepare themselves to battle all the speculation that will inevitably come with being a part of the same England team – and rivals on a domestic stage.

_Joy._

“Now, lads,” Jamie starts on the team bus, grinning widely as he twirls the microphone around his hand before lifting it to speak once more. “Before we get started on a singalong… Our Captain has a song he’d like to sing to someone _very _special. Come on up, Faz!”

Reluctantly, Owen drags himself into a standing position, ignoring the hoots and whistles in favour of picking his way down the aisle to the front of the bus and taking the mic from Jamie’s treacherous hands.

“I do _not_ have a song I want to sing,” he grumbles into it. “Jinx is too much of a romantic for his own good.”

The team only cheers, and with a deep, heavy sigh, Owen nods at Jamie to turn the music on.

“Apparently,” he adds as an afterthought, “Because _someone else_ decided to kiss _me_ on the pitch today, _I_ have to pay the price.”

“G’wan, Manu lad!” Ben yells from somewhere down the bus, Owen managing a brief smile at the finger that rises from his boyfriend in response before he has to suck in a breath and start singing.

“Baby, when I met you there was peace unknown…”

Already, Jamie’s phone is out, camera trained on Owen as its owner laughs maniacally.

“I set out to get you with a fine-tooth comb – I was soft inside; there was something going on…”

At least Manu’s enjoying it, nodding along with that happy little grin on his face that _always_ gets the better of Owen. Despite himself, he can’t hold back his own answering smile as he adjusts the mic in his hand.

“Aw, look at that…” Elliot coos quietly to his left. “We knew he’d like it really…”

Forcefully ignoring Elliot and Jamie’s ongoing banter, Owen focuses himself on the song and Manu’s face, drinking in the sparkling gaze that dances over him and the soft curve of his partner’s lips, Manu’s quiet pleasure urging him on.

“You do something to me that I can’t explain… Hold me closer and I feel no pain – every beat of my heart, we got something going on…”

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s starting to settle into the song, each word comfortable and familiar as it rolls off his tongue, and the tune just _flows_, a fitting accompaniment to Manu’s shining features. The ever-present buzz of the win, the excitement of what’s to come – all of it is a beautiful backdrop to Manu right now, whom he no longer has to hide his love for from _anyone_.

“Manu, get your arse up there!” Henry calls, and Owen pauses to hear his boyfriend’s reply, uncaring that the music is playing on.

“Not a fucking _chance_,” Manu retorts, sinking lower in his seat.

“You could do a duet!” Jamie declares, leaning over the back of his seat, to a round of catcalls from the squad.

“I’m not –” Manu protests, even as Ben reaches across the aisle to tug on his arm. “Owen’s doing fine by himself…”

“You’re not going to leave your boyfriend up there alone, are you?” JJ prods him.

“Jinx, stop the music!” Elliot cries suddenly, shoving at Jamie. “They can do the chorus together!”

“I’m not singing,” Manu insists loudly, but Owen’s already seen his chance; lifting his microphone, he clears his throat.

“If we do the chorus together, can I finish at that?”

Quiet falls, and Jamie shares a glance with Elliot, then looks around at the rest of the team.

“What do we think, boys?” he prompts, grinning. “Manu, this is your chance to help your boyfriend out – he’d _owe_ you after this…”

Flushing, Owen rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother to try and beat down the lewd comments that follow.

“Come on…” he pushes instead, and extends a hand to beckon Manu up, dropping his forearm to the back of a seat to support himself as the bus turns a corner. “You got me into this, you can get me out.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Manu grumbles, but he’s smiling a little as he stands and wanders his way down to the front. “_Just_ one chorus, yeah?”

“Just one chorus,” Jamie confirms cheerfully. “Then you’re both free to go, mate. Ready?”

“Yeah…” Manu sighs, Owen nodding in confirmation as he pushes himself upright and shifts the mic into a position where it can pick them both up.

A moment later, an arm settles itself around his upper back, pulling him closer, and as the music starts up once more, Owen draws in one last deep breath to launch into the chorus.

“Islands in the stream – that is what we are…”

Manu’s head rests gently against his for a second – as long as either man dares, with the bus still shuddering along.

“No one in between; how could we be wrong?”

Jamie’s filming again. Of _fucking_ course he is. Owen sticks his middle finger up in his friend’s direction, but doesn’t even consider stopping, because Manu’s body is warm and solid against him, slotting perfectly into place, and as much as he’s protested this, he can no longer deny that he’s enjoying having just a small moment to celebrate not only the win, but their impromptu coming out.

“Sail away with me, to another world, and we rely on each other, aha…”

“_Everybody_!” Jamie cheers.

“One lover to another, aha!” the squad roars, Owen holding back a wince at the sudden explosion of sound as Manu starts laughing next to him, the arm around his shoulders already pulling him back to their seats; he has to lean away to pass the mic back to Jamie before letting Manu tug him the rest of the way down the bus.

“Our very own lovers, Owen and Manu!” Jamie declares. “Give it up for them, boys!”

_For fuck’s sake…_

With a small grunt of frustration, Owen turns his face into Manu’s shoulder, exaggerating his desire to hide from them all, and Ben laughs, leaning over to shove Manu and, by extension, Owen himself.

“Beautiful,” the scrumhalf declares mockingly, and Owen feels more than sees Manu swat at him in return, though it unfortunately does nothing to deter Ben. “Willi, mate! You up for swapping with Manu tonight? He’d really appreciate it!”

As embarrassed as he is by the whistles and jeering that erupt – never mind irritated by Ben asking in the first place – Owen can’t help but appreciate Willi’s good-natured agreement.

At some point, Owen really needs to deal with his partner’s new-found habit of stopping him in his tracks for a kiss, because he’s barely made it four steps out of the bathroom, hair still damp from his shower, when lips collide with his own, hands already smoothing across his shoulders and down his arms. He’ll save that for another time, however, when Manu’s fingers aren’t travelling further downwards, tugging the towel from his waist to bare him entirely. A hum of approval vibrates against his tongue as those calloused hands snake around, finding his arse to grope eagerly, and finally, he summons the processing ability to fumble at the pyjamas Manu’s changed into, yanking hurriedly at the fabric even as it occurs to him that Manu might as well have not put them on in the first place.

Briefly, they separate, Manu drawing back to assist in pulling his shirt over his head, then his trousers are gone as well, and Owen allows himself to be led towards his own bed, finding himself drawn back in for another kiss before Manu, obviously with a very clear idea of what he wants tonight, presses him down onto the mattress. Owen goes with it happily, uncaring what they do as long as it’s _something_, with Manu, to celebrate everything that’s happened today and maybe just anchor him a little, too. He’s not feeling all that precious tonight – just wants his boyfriend.

When Manu pulls back again, he almost protests, but the glint in Manu’s dark, hungry gaze has the words dying in his throat; instead, he can only prop himself up on his elbows to watch as Manu shuffles backwards to settle over his lower legs then leans down to – _oh_…

“Fuck…” he groans, trying not to arch his hips, and Manu hums in acknowledgement, which really doesn’t help his efforts in the slightest.

Closing his eyes, he lets himself sink into the warmth and pleasure, more than willing to give control over to Manu for the time being; he’s spent the whole day in charge, and it’s nice to give that up for a moment, every once in a while. Desperately, he bites down on his lower lip to muffle the moans that threaten to escape, threading one shaking hand through Manu’s short hair as he drops back down onto the mattress. A moment later, he remembers that the entire team likely already knows what they’re doing in here – and that the rest of the world could probably take a good guess based on the knowledge that they’re sharing a room tonight. The reminder that they’re _out_ sends a jolt through his system, and suddenly, he’s not sure he can be bothered to hold anything back. Just for tonight, he’ll let everything go, and if he regrets it all tomorrow, he can deal with it then.

Eventually – happy, sated and clean once more – Owen burrows under the quilt, Manu’s arm warm and comfortably heavy around his waist as rough lips caress the back of his neck. Manu’s pyjamas haven’t made it back on, but Owen’s fairly sure that his boyfriend doesn’t miss them too much, seemingly more than happy to simply shuffle closer to Owen, solid chest searing the length of Owen’s spine.

“We’re through,” Manu whispers, the sheer joy in his tone enough to bring a beam to Owen’s features even regardless of the words. “This could be the year.”

The message is clear: this could be the year they win it. It’s not just redemption they’re searching for; it hasn’t been for years, even if they lost sight of anything more than that straight after the last World Cup – a pain that Manu didn’t _technically_ feel, but he had his own demons that Owen remembers all too clearly – and they’re here to go all the way. This is likely to be Manu’s last World Cup, and they’re going to make everything of it that they can.

“This could be the year,” Owen agrees quietly, threading their fingers together, and feels Manu’s lips press to the back of his neck once more. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Manu murmurs, breath ghosting Owen’s skin. “We should go bowling tomorrow or something.”

“Yeah?” Owen hums quietly. “Sounds nice.”

“And find a karaoke bar,” Manu adds. “Do that duet properly.”

Rolling his eyes, Owen doesn’t bother with a verbal response. Instead, he squeezes Manu’s fingers lightly and reaches out to turn off the bedside lamp, shuffling into a slightly more comfortable position to sleep then closing his eyes. The small, steady puffs of air against his neck lull him slowly down, into a light doze and then a little further, awareness finally slipping from him with a final imprint of Manu’s arm around him, their legs tangled beneath the sheets as he relaxes into his boyfriend’s hold.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, and I'm sorry for it getting a little... heated. I was actually flirting with going all-in and writing a sex scene, but kind of backed out of that one. Still gave it an Explicit rating just in case, though.


End file.
